


Dress me up in Stitches

by ohfreckle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fail sex, First Kiss, M/M, badass criminals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfreckle/pseuds/ohfreckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stitching up Arthur's gunshot wound is just the first thing Eames didn't plan to do this evening.</p><p> <i>If there was one thing Eames learned about Arthur early on, except for his predilection for sex in public places, it was that Arthur is straight. Eames loves a challenge, he does, but making straight men appreciate the joys of cock is something he has always thought to belong into the realms of fairy tales.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress me up in Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> Another episode in my ongoing series of 'Sex without anybody getting naked', sigh. I'm working on it, though.
> 
> This has been sitting in my WIP folder since last year, and I finally finished it for Inceptiversary's current 'finish your WIP challenge'.

Arthur is staring blankly at his shoulder where Eames cut the fabric of his sleeve.

“Will you hurry the fuck up, I’m bleeding,” he says and pokes at the red soaked mess that still was a white dress shirt two hours ago. 

If he sounds a little shrill, Eames can hardly blame him.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Eames says mildly. He’s proud the way his voice wavers only a little, just a small hitch giving away how rattled he really is. 

Their extractor, Cingolani—- a smarmy guy who looks too much like Nash for Eames to be comfortable with—- sold them out. It’s only by dumb luck and Arthur’s finely honed paranoia that they got out with just a grazing shot to Arthur’s shoulder.

He arranges his supplies as quickly as he can while he keeps an eye on Arthur. The last thing he needs is for Arthur to go into shock and dutiful medicals asking questions neither of them can answer without risking jail or having to eliminate them. He may not look like it, and he _does_ enjoy a good fight just like the next bloke, but Eames tries to avoid unnecessary violence. It’s messy, and the results are rarely worth the trouble of clean up. 

“Eames. Eaaaaaaamesss…, dammit, are you this slowonpurpose.” 

Arthur slurs a little and takes a swig from a vodka bottle that passed half full several minutes ago. 

He’ll need it, Eames thinks ruefully. Apart from the Ibuprofen in Eames’s emergency kit it’s all he’ll get.

Arthur grunts and slumps back against the bed, leaving a bright red streak on the white pillow that quickly spreads and soaks into the fabric. Christ, they’ll have to burn the whole hotel room if Arthur keeps bleeding all over the bedding and interior. It’s a sign of how much pain he’s in if he’s that unconcerned with leaving evidence. 

“Jesus fucking–” Eames bites out, exasperated because of course Arthur manages to be a demanding bugger even while he’s half out of it. 

He stops when he sees Arthur’s drawn face. The wound isn’t life threatening, far from it, but even someone as bullheaded as Arthur has to succumb to pain and blood loss eventually. 

There’s something almost poetic about it, the way he lounges there, like Goya’s Maja. Flawless clean lines of charcoal and white marred by vivid red. Ruined beauty has always called to Eames on a base level. Even now, the artist in him itches to draw Arthur just like this. Maybe another time.

“Lose the shirt, if you please,” he says instead.

Arthur just grunts and starts to roll around and squirm on the bed. The only thing he accomplishes in his half drunk state is to ruck up his shirt under his arms and put more pressure on his wound. 

Eames watches him for a minute before he slaps his hands away and makes quick work of the ruined shirt. There’s quite a bit of bitching and honest-to-god whining involved, but the grunt Arthur gives after Eames is finished with him sounds different from the previous one, so Eames takes it as a ‘thank you’.

As expected, Arthur’s gratitude doesn’t last long. The curses he flings at Eames when he takes the bottle from Arthur’s shaking hands and pours vodka over the long gash are colorful enough that even Eames’s mother would be impressed at the things Arthur wishes on her son.

“A little compassion here, asshole,” Arthur barks, albeit weakly, when Eames doesn’t give him time to breathe through the burn of it.

Eames keeps him upright with a hand on his shoulder and simply ignores him. 

“Stay still, then, you prissy little tart. Or I might accidentally sew your mouth shut.” 

“Stop torturing me, then. Jesus, you’re the worst nurse. In fact, you’re more like a butcher. You totally missed your calling.” 

By the time Arthur is done spitting like a cat Eames has already put in the first stitch. 

“Aren’t you drunk enough by now? Can’t you just be a normal drunk and fall asleep?” 

Eames wonders why he even cares. With Arthur’s lack of social etiquette outside of contractual obligations it’s sometimes easy to forget that they are actually friends. Not the kind one hangs out with every day, but the kind one trusts with one’s life. They only ever meet at jobs (admittedly more and more frequently), and so far it has worked well for them. Christmas cards are really cumbersome little things, and they both consider a saved bullet, a timely warning, or even just a drunk call at 3 a.m. without getting griped at a far greater gift.

“Bit hard to get drunk if you take my booze so you can slop it all over me.” 

Arthur holds his hand out demandingly. Eames almost has a mind to shut the ungrateful prick up, but he hands him the now mostly empty bottle and dearly hopes it will do the job.

Eames works quickly and efficiently, uses forceps to pinch the skin and lays his stitches as close to the edges of the wound as possible.

The alcohol finally seems to catch up with Arthur. He keeps very still and watches Eames work with the quiet focus of the inebriated, only occasionally turning his head to take another mouthful from the bottle. It’s almost peaceful, not unlike one of the late nights they spend quietly doing research.

“There you go, all done and as good as new,” Eames says when he finally snips the thread and dresses the wound. 

A relieved sigh and a heartfelt _fuck, fuckfuckfuck_ is all the thanks Eames gets for his efforts. Even swearing and bleeding all over a dubitably clean bedspread Arthur is nothing predictable. 

But then Arthur— _reliable and predictable Arthur_ — is anything but, and he tilts Eames’s world on its axis without any effort at all.

"Kiss me. Please,” Arthur breathes. 

He sways into Eames and doesn’t wait for his request to be granted or repelled. 

Arthur’s lips are shockingly soft, and Eames brings a hand up to cradle his face and opens to the questing tongue by sheer instinct. Arthur’s kiss is clumsy and tastes like pain and vodka, but Eames still finds himself kissing back for long moments before he pulls back and stares at Arthur, dumbfounded.

Arthur smiles at him. A full blown smile with dimples and all, smears of blood from Eames’s fingers on his left cheek. 

Eames is pretty sure his heart shouldn’t beat this hard at the sight. 

“Arthur, wha—“ he tries, confused at what just happened and even more that he allowed it, but it’s clear his question won’t be answered. Arthur suddenly is a heavy weight against him, slumped against his side and snoring softly. 

Eames closes his eyes and for a moment he just sits there, shocked stiff, heart thudding and Arthur nestled against him, blissfully unaware of how he just sent Eames’s world tumbling. 

Christ, he can’t think with Arthur this close. As careful as he can he lays Arthur down on the bed and swings his own legs up so he can lean back against the headboard.

He stares at the ugly wallpaper and tries to disentangle his thoughts, but almost unconsciously his eyes slide back to Arthur next to him, and his mind is stuck in a loop of _what the bloody hell did just happen?_

It’s been years since Eames has let himself think about Arthur in an even remotely sexual way. Not until Arthur, half drugged, his shirt soaked with blood and his cheeks flushed pink, kissed him. 

And now he can’t seem to stop.

There definitely was a spark of interest the first time they met, a mind-numbingly boring work meeting with the Cobbs at a fancy restaurant that wasn’t actually fancy enough for Eames to remember its name or location. The one thing he does remember is their extractor going down on Arthur in the men’s room, her red curls bobbing enthusiastically. 

Any interest or curiosity that may have been remaining after that went flying when he walked in on Arthur a couple of months later while he fucked a petite brunette against the wall of one of their mark’s storage rooms. 

Eames isn’t blind. He’s an artist second, and a man first, one who very much appreciates the fine things in life. 

Arthur was gorgeous even back then, when he was a little less polished and a little more reckless. But if there was one thing Eames learned about Arthur early on, except for his predilection for sex in public places, it was that Arthur is straight. Eames loves a challenge, he does, but making straight men appreciate the joys of cock is something he has always thought to belong into the realms of fairy tales.

Eames wonders if he was wrong on that account and maybe during one of their jobs some bloke got so incredibly lucky to teach Arthur how to suck cock, or if the invitation was always there and he was just too obtuse to pick up on it.

Next to him Arthur shifts. A small grunt of pain escapes when he puts pressure on his arm, but he doesn’t wake. Eames is glad for the small favor. With only Ibuprofen and vodka to dull the pain the stitches will hurt like hell once Arthur wakes up.

With nothing to do but wait, Eames allows himself to look. 

Arthur’s face is flushed, single strands of hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. His lips are pursed in a small moue. Oddly enough it’s still easy to imagine that a particularly energetic romp between the sheets put that blush on his cheeks.

Eames must have dozed off over that particular thought, which is a bleeding shame, really. He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. It’s going to be a long night. 

He’s still confused and the slightest bit miffed at Arthur for taking the easy way out, even if he can’t really blame him. Sighing again Eames shrugs slowly out of his soiled shirt and lies down, facing Arthur.

“You’re thinking so hard I can hear you,” Arthur says softly. He’s staring at Eames with wide eyes.

“Christ, Arthur, don’t do that,” Eames wheezes, startled. 

Arthur looks much too alert, or at least by far not drunk enough for the amount of alcohol he’s had, and Eames briefly wonders just how much time he spent reminiscing about Arthur’s barely legal arse.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Arthur says, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere on Eames’s shoulder. “If you don’t want to. I thought the pet names and flirting…”

Arthur trails off, biting his lip, which is rather distracting. For a professional thief and criminal he’s a surprisingly terrible liar.

Eames on the other hand is a spectacular liar. He even managed to lie to himself successfully for years, pretending that all his flirting was just to rile Arthur. For Arthur to see right through him, he must have done a right bum job of it.

Eames leans in slowly, but Arthur is already there, meeting him halfway. He’s delightfully eager, tongue flicking out to trace Eames’s bottom lip as soon as their lips meet. Eames lets himself be kissed, opens up at the first touch and lets Arthur explore him with long slow strokes and greedy licks. He groans when Arthur sucks lightly on his tongue, a deep sound that turns into a gasp when Arthur slides a thigh over his hip.

“Touch me,” Arthur breathes sharply, his breath fanning over Eames’s jaw. Eames barely hears it over the staccato of his own heart, but his hands are already on Arthur before the sound even registers. Arthur arches into his touch, his arse fitting perfectly into the cup of Eames’s hands. 

It’s just a kiss, but already Eames can’t get enough of the slow burn that starts in his gut and flares hotter with every touch. Arthur’s hands are restless, fluttering over Eames’s chest and biceps with teasing touches. It takes Eames a moment to realize that Arthur is feeling his way over the map of ink on Eames’s skin.

He barely stops himself from preening, or maybe he doesn’t, because there’s definitely a smile against his skin when Arthur paints the swirls curling over his shoulder with his tongue.

Eames rolls onto his back and takes Arthur with him, mindful of his shoulder. Arthur straddles him and for long seconds Eames just watches him, like he’s seeing him for the first time. 

He looks like always if a little worse for the wear, but the pang of _want_ Eames feels– lets himself feel– is new. It’s terrifying and exciting at once, and Eames kisses Arthur just to make his traitorous brain shut up about any ramifications that may come out of this.

Arthur hisses when Eames pulls him down with a hand on his neck, but the _fuck, Eames_ he gasps into Eames’s mouth sounds nothing like pain at all. Eames kisses him, slow and deep, needing more of the noises Arthur makes, desperate little gasps that Eames laps up greedily. 

The sharp cut of Arthur’s hips feels just right against Eames’s palms. They fall into a rhythm easily, tongues sliding against each other between sharp nips and soft suckling kisses. Eames feels too hot, but nothing could make him give up the sweet weight of Arthur rocking into him, guided by Eames’s hands on his hips. 

It’s good, so bloody good it makes Eames’s head spin. He can already feel the familiar tingle in his balls, not caring in the slightest that he’ll come in his pants like a schoolboy within the next three minutes. He bucks hard against Arthur, encouraged by Arthur biting soft whispers of “yeah, come _on_ ” into his throat. 

Eames’s climax is a warm, oddly gentle rush that seems to go on forever, his pleasure drawn out by the gentle roll of Arthur’s hips against him.

Arthur stretches out against him with a small sigh. It takes Eames a minute to gather his wits, but when he finally does he’s startled to feel the press of Arthur’s soft cock against his thigh. 

“Wait, did you—”

“No,” Arthur murmurs sleepily. “I’m sorry, too much booze and painkillers to get it up.” He yawns and presses a kiss to the underside of Eames’s jaw. “Still the best sex I’ve had in forever.”

Eames lies there, flabbergasted, and listens to Arthur’s breath evening out.

He’s not sure what’s more appalling, that he was too busy getting off to notice Arthur’s lack of, ah, functioning bits, that Arthur feels the need to apologize for it, or that they both consider this the best sex they’ve had for some time. 

Eames can’t breathe properly with Arthur slumped over him, and the cooling mess in his pants is already beginning to feel disgusting. It’s going to be a long night, but Eames doesn’t know where he’d rather be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback is much appreciated! For updates, snippets and whinings on my fics, feel free to add me on [tumblr](http://ohfreckle.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](http://twitter.com/ohfreckle)


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